Obedear
by escapingeveline
Summary: It was amazing how much of an effect a simple mistake could have on two people. In America's opinion, it was the best mistake of his life.


Obedear

It had started innocently enough. There was no heartfelt confession, or sappy tears. America wasn't even sure if there was an awkward stage, or if he had just repressed it. All he knew was that it had happened. And it had happened seamlessly.

He'd always paid special attention to England. That much wasn't a secret from anyone. England had always been wary of him too. It was only a split second, a single moment that had caught his attention. Maybe it was a mistake, a simple slip of the tongue. Nowadays England constantly assured him that it wasn't, but America liked the idea of destiny putting words into his mouth. There were a small number of things that was bigger than a nation, and destiny just happened to be one of them. When he had told England this he had only laughed and reassured him that there were only two things bigger than a nation, and that was America's imagination followed by his ego.

Either way, he was grateful for it, whatever it was.

What was once so rare and unheard of was muttered constantly. It was said on the phone as they exchanged goodbyes. It was whispered in meetings as they took their seats next to each other, asking the other how their day was. This of course, was just a formality. Having spent the day together, naturally they knew what the other was doing. But in order not to arouse suspicion they went on as they normally would, the only hints to uncovering the ruse were the secrets hidden in the curve of England's lips as his mind wandered. Secrets which America decoded later that night, as he heard it again, murmured under the other's breath as kisses were placed in between his thighs, slowly and carefully moving up to his chest and lips. He stopped hearing it for a while after that, as the only noise escaping the two were breathless moans and desperate pleas.

America wasn't too worried however. He knew that, come morning, he would hear it again. A gentle kiss would be placed to his forehead, a silent promise that England would be right back. What would seem like a few moments later in his half-asleep state, he would return, placing a warm cup of coffee by the nightstand. England would slip right back in under the covers, sipping at his drink as he flipped through the morning paper of whatever country they were visiting at the moment. By the time America fully woke, the room smelled of coffee and earl grey, a scent that he had come to associate with happiness and home. He would pick up his mug and lean on England's shoulder, reading the paper as he sipped at what truly was a terribly made cup of coffee.

But he really didn't mind, as England would always lean over to place a kiss on his brow, muttering those words that he knew America loved so much.

They had just sort of fallen into it. At first it was just walking the other to their hotel room. Not that it was a far trek, most nations had their rooms all on the same floor, but nevertheless, it was a start. Then it was casual outings to whatever restaurant was recommended by the locals. This feat was far more interesting, as it added the challenge of stumbling through a foreign language. But they had managed. Later it was increased visits to the other's room, followed by overnight stays and rushed mornings in which they struggled to get themselves together for the day ahead. Eventually it was decided that it was too much of a hassle, and England's bags were just placed in America's room to begin with. Or America's in England's. It depended on which room had the better view.

They were close. They had always _been_ close. Falling into step with England was one of the easiest things he'd ever done. And falling in love, far easier than that. It had almost scared him at first, watching the man that he knew he loved crawl out of bed, limbs awkwardly tangled in bedsheets and his hair a mess. And he couldn't stop watching him, how he moved and stumbled around the room, his eyes bleary and sleepy. And England always seemed to catch him looking, rewarding America with a tired, but genuine smile. America would only smile back, feeling his heart swell at the expression. He loved every little bit of this man, right down to the way he would scowl at his socks as soon as he had fished them out from under the bed, as if they had done him the insult of hiding themselves there.

England knew it too; it wasn't something that America kept to himself. Honestly, he had a hard time keeping his opinion about anything to himself. So moments after the thought had struck him, he'd blurted it out. It wasn't a special moment or a romantic date, or anything of that sort. America had just been watching England choose a snack at a local café for their lunch break. With his eyebrows slightly furrowed, he had been concentrating on which type of pastry he would enjoy best when America had decided to speak up. Something had just hit him then, watching England do nothing extraordinary or even remotely interesting. He would be totally content with just spending the rest of his life like this, making the big choices between a cinnamon or blueberry scone. Just as long as it was with him.

England had stared at him for a moment, his mouth open slightly, forming a silent _'Oh'_. America had apologized profusely, and the matter was left alone, not to be spoken of again until later that night. He'd been channel surfing, complaining about the lack of interesting foreign programs when England silenced him, placing a rushed and nervous kiss to his lips. _"I love you too, darling."_

From then on, they were closer than ever before. It was the little things, things that people wouldn't pay particular attention to if they weren't looking for it. Whispered messages behind manila folders, a shared drink, sitting close enough to each other so that they could share an armrest, small things such as that. Fingers tangled loosely around each other, hidden underneath the table, as if even a moment's parting would end them both.

They couldn't, and wouldn't be separated. America was very well aware that it seemed as if they were in what would be called, "The Honeymoon Stage", with the way that their free time was spent in bed, huddling together, legs intertwined in the sheets, but it was different. They were still the same, absolutely nothing had to change. England still nagged at him for being too sloppy, and in turn America complained that England was nothing more than a sour old man. They were far from a perfect couple, but in their imperfections, they found comfort with one another. They had started this way after all, with insults and teasing. And that's how it was for years, until that one slip up.

"_Would you pass this on, darling?"_

America had stared at him, startled. Darling? He was no one's darling, least of all England's. His fingers were frozen on the sheets of paper, watching the color of England's face turn pale, having realized what he had just said. Which left the question in the air; would he _like_ to be his darling?

He swallowed nervously, fighting to ignore the pounding in his chest. A pair of desperate green eyes stayed focused on America's own, unblinking, pleading for him to just brush it off, forget that it had ever happened and carry on with the meeting. America kept his gaze steady, his heart in his throat. A small, reassuring smile made its way to his expression, shaking the slightest bit from nerves.

"Yes, I would."


End file.
